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Water sloshed from their clothes as they ascended the stairs. Thorn held Lydia’s hand tightly, his thumb occasionally brushing her knuckles.
Inside his bedchamber, he reluctantly released her hand and moved quickly to the hearth, tossing several logs onto the dying fire. He knelt before it, stirring until the flames awakened, licking at the corners of the hearth and casting a warm glow across the room. The growing heat against his face was a stark contrast to his sodden clothes, which clung uncomfortably to his skin.
Lydia stepped closer to the fire, shivering, arms wrapped around herself, water pooling at her feet.
“You’ll catch your death,” he murmured, moving behind her. “Unless I get you warm.”
She threw him a teasing glance over her shoulder, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.
He fought to steady his trembling hands as he reached for the fastenings of her gown. She didn’t protest—just stood there motionless, trusting him completely.
His fingers worked carefully, reverently, until the sodden bodice sagged. He guided it down, his hands lingering at her waist and her hips, feeling the curve of her beneath his palms as she stepped free of the gown.
And then she stood before him in her soaked undergarments, and his mouth went dry. The thin linen clung to her like a second skin, concealing nothing from his gaze. The firelight silhouetted her form, highlighting every curve.
She was no longer the girl he remembered. The changes in her body made her even more desirable. Her thighs had filled with the strength of a horsewoman, her belly softly rounded, her breasts fuller. Heat coursed through him, settling low in his abdomen. He struggled to draw a proper breath.
“You’re…” he began, but words failed him entirely.
How could he possibly articulate what he felt? That she was more beautiful than his memory had preserved?
His hand moved of its own accord, hovering just above her shoulder, craving contact yet hesitant to take liberties.
A knock at the door startled them both. He cursed under his breath and stepped back.
“Enter!” he called, turning away from Lydia, fighting to compose himself.
A maid arrived with pitchers of steaming water. Thorn was grateful for the distraction.
He carried the pitchers to the dressing room, then gathered a soft towel, a washcloth, and a fresh shirt from his wardrobe. Returning to Lydia, he placed them in her hands, allowing his fingers to brush against hers—savoring even that slight contact.
“Take your time,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, then disappeared into the dressing room.
Thorn handed her soaked gown to the maid for cleaning and drying, then quickly peeled off his coat and passed it over as well.
When Lydia returned, clean, slightly drier than before, and wearing a single shirt—his shirt—it took all his self-control not to devour her right then and there.
But he needed to pace himself.
“Just one night,” she had said. But he vowed to himself that he would turn one night into forever. This time, he wouldn’t let her slip away.
So he stepped into the dressing room, leaving Lydia by the fire. He quickly undressed, washing the mud from his skin, then donned a dry shirt and breeches before hurrying back into the bedroom.
His heart pounded wildly in his chest. A part of him feared that when he opened the door, the room would be empty. That she would be gone.
That this had all been a dream.
That he had never truly found her.
Thorn pulled the door open with excess force… And froze.
She was indeed there.
She sat on the rug by the fire, wearing nothing but his shirt, the white fabric draping over her curves, falling to mid-thigh. Like a beautiful flower.
My Lily.
